L'amour des deux lapins: A première vue
by Polly Lynn
Summary: "He's not . . . He wants to explain that he's not. That he didn't even know what he was walking into. He didn't even realize this place was here. Even though he must have walked past it a hundred times, he had no idea." A three-shot prequel to "L'amour de deux lapins." NOW COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

Title: L'amour de deux lapins: A première vue, Chapter 1

WC: ~2300

Rating: K+

Summary: "He's not . . . He wants to explain that he's _not_. That he didn't even know what he was walking into. He didn't even realize this place was here. Even though he must have walked past it a hundred times, he had no idea."

A/N: A prequel to "L'amour de deux lapins." This will be three chapters, all posted this week.

Thanks—or a hearty CURRRSEEE YOOOOOU—to Cora Clavia for twisting my Brain to write this, and thanks again to all who read/reviewed "L'amour" and shared bunny and other pet anecdotes with me.

Dedicated to Berkie Lynn and the RL Batman.

* * *

Castle loves rain. Really.

He's into the symbolism. The gritty summer skies washed clean. The baking hot, filthy streets and sidewalks lit up with borrowed glitter for an hour or two.

New York is never the same city after a rainstorm. It's all dressed up. Deception or possibility or both. Either way, rain makes for a hundred new ways to describe the same old setting.

And the Piña Colada Song notwithstanding, no one is more convinced than he of the romantic potential of a downpour. It stirs banked memories and sharpens constant desire into something immediate and pressing. It makes him want her. It makes him want to lock the doors and have her, wordless and tangled up and taking the heat from his skin. From his body into hers.

His pro-rain position is firmly established, but he is _done_ with this particular rain. He's done with this entire day, but the rain really puts the punctuation on the whole sorry mess.

There's a hole in the bottom of his criminally expensive shoe, and his hair is long enough to be some kind of perfect gutter system. Every drop of rain carefully bypasses his jacket and makes its way down his collar and directly on to his skin.

That particular detail is insult to injury. He'd skipped out of the precinct early, to the tune of merciless teasing from Ryan and Esposito—teasing from which Beckett felt _no _obligation to defend him—and hauled all the way across town for the barber's appointment he'd been sure he'd made.

He must have gotten the date wrong, though, because Ilya is out of the country, and the last time he'd let anyone else near his head, he'd had to go into seclusion until time, length, and product could beat the cowlicks back.

He's been splashed and dripped on. He's been packed into the subway with wet, ornery commuters and their poky umbrellas. He's drenched and steaming—because the determined, endless downpour has done nothing to put a dent in the outrageous heat— and now the streets are packed with slow-moving, disgruntled rush-hour New Yorkers.

He's just about done.

He's _so_ close to home. Barely two blocks from a shower and dry clothes, but that somehow makes it worse. As the foot traffic gets denser and the rain comes down harder and harder, it all takes on the throat-closing quality of an anxiety dream.

The spoke of a particularly vicious umbrella catches him in the temple. The severe woman wielding it interrupts her clipped cell phone conversation long enough to profanely advise him to watch out.

The force and placement of the blow are enough to stagger him briefly. It sends him into the path of another umbrella. He leans sharply out of the way, and his skull makes contact with plate glass on the other side.

He sees stars and decides that however close to home he is, it's time to wait things out. The storm, the stupidity, or his impatience with it. He's not quite sure.

He tugs open the first available door to his left. It's such a shift in atmosphere that he mistakes it for calm at first. The light is dimmer. It's a more constant hum than the blinding stops and starts of headlights in rush-hour traffic on a sullen, gray day.

The steady stream of a dozen conversations fills the cramped space, but each one is low, and the urgency occupies a different frequency. Each one lists toward privacy. There's a static, interior hush that dampens and flattens the noise, despite a confusion of something underneath. A variety of insistent sounds that compete with the words, making a different kind of sense.

He registers the smells next. Sharp and warm, with strong notes beneath. Antiseptic and bodies and sawdust. It's neither wholly pleasant or unpleasant.

He steps clear of the doorway. It's an instinctive, lateral move born of a lifetime in the city, and he finds himself in a corner, back against the plate-glass windows that look out on to the street and across a narrow aisle from a large, busy reception desk of some kind.

He tries to get his bearings. There's a humming energy to the place, but the shift is restful after the frustrations of the street. Knots of people bend their heads together at the desk. Two rows of back-to-back folding chairs stretch across the width of the space, occupied by strangers who sit thigh to thigh and give each other tight, sympathetic smiles.

It's some kind of lobby, he realizes. A doctor's office, he thinks at first. Something about the smell and clipboards and the not-so-steady tick of names being called.

A harried-looking young woman in a red t-shirt greets Castle with a sincere, but short-lived smile. She tells him to feel free to browse.

"And if there's anyone you want to snuggle, just grab a volunteer!" She tugs at an emblem on her shirt for emphasis and spins away.

Castle nods. His head is still buzzing and he hasn't quite adjusted yet. His mind catches up with her verb choice: _Snuggle_.

He looks around. Details snap into place. Stacks of wire crates stretch from floor to ceiling at intervals along the walls and in columns, two by two, at the corners of the large room. The floor is broken up by a handful of mesh-topped tables and the reception desk is flanked by bird cages. Every enclosure is alive with movement and sound.

Small animal carriers litter the floor in front of the folding chairs. Castle sees everything from chic fabric shoulder bags to cheap plastic and the occasional sturdy cardboard housing that bears the the shelter's logo.

_Shelter. _

He feels an insistent nudge at his shin. He looks down to find a broad, brindled head dipping for his knee again. Castle holds out a tentative hand. The dog raises its nose for one suspicious second then happily bumps an ear against the proffered fingers.

"I'm sorry! No . . . doggie, no!" A young woman blushes pink as she tugs on the leash. It's bright red leather stamped with a cute design of cartoon bones, but it's clipped to a dirty, sawed off thing wound around the dog's neck in a makeshift collar. "I'm sorry! He's . . . I think he's friendly."

"He's fine," Castle smiles down at her as the dog presses a humid nose into his palm. "Not yours?"

She shakes her head. "Found him wandering in the neighborhood. I brought him here. He's not chipped, though. They'll take him . . ." She swallows hard and swipes at her eyes. "God, they're gonna think I'm the one dumping him!"

"You already have one of your own, don't you?" The woman looks startled. Castle gestures by way of explanation. "The leash."

"Yeah." The woman's face softens in pleasant memory. "Got her here. She's already too big for our place." She curls her nails along the dog's jaw. He sits at her feet, pressing close against her calves. "They're really good here. He'll be fine. And . . . my boyfriend would _kill _me," she says more to the dog than Castle.

"Hard not to get attached, though." Castle gives her a sympathetic smile.

"Yeah." She pats the dog's flank and his tongue lolls out in doggie ecstasy.

The door opens to admit a new flood of people. The brindle dog dances with a small terrier. A tired-looking man tries to manage an impatient child of about six with one hand and a carrier that's full of very angry cat with the other.

Castle looks around, trying to find some place out of the way to remove himself to.

"Good luck," he calls over his shoulder to the woman.

She waves a thank you. "Careful who you get attached to."

"Oh, I'm not . . ." Castle trails off.

He's not . . . He wants to explain that he's _not_. That he didn't even know what he was walking into. He didn't even realize this place was here. Even though he must have walked past it a hundred times, he had no idea.

He wants to tell someone that he's _not. _It feels important. Critical to say it out loud. To have witnesses. But the woman isn't listening.

Nobody's listening, and it suddenly strikes Castle that being here is a spectacularly bad idea. A dangerous idea.

He's _not, _but he'd love to.

It rushes in at him. Images. Sensations. Fantasies.

Something running around the loft. Curling up when they leave and padding to the door when they come home. Eager demands and imperious ones. To be fed, walked, played with. Loved.

A cat, he thinks immediately. A kitten. A fluffy, mischievous little thing with deep green eyes winding around Kate's ankles. Scaling the office bookshelves and tangling herself up in sailboat rigging. Or maybe an older one. Sleek and elegant. Draped carelessly along the back of the couch while Kate stretches out to read.

His heart thumps hard against his ribs. Dangerous. All of it dangerous, but he sees it so clearly. He can feel the rumbling purr under his fingertips. He can taste Kate's smile as she complains about snags in her work pants and hair everywhere. But he can taste her smile and hear her murmuring, frustrated and fond as her long, elegant fingers smooth along dark fur.

It's a bad idea. Letting his mind run with this is a bad idea, but he can't stop.

It's a dog now. A solid, warm weight bumping against their legs while they cook together in the kitchen. Kate squealing at an unexpected cold nose pressed in to her thigh. Scolding and insisting that he's not allowed on the furniture. In the bed. Scolding and laughing as he worms his way in between them.

Then he sees the two of them walking him in the park. She doesn't scold then. She runs, open and easy and laughing, and the dog chases. She snags his hand and the two of them linger in the sun together, on a bench or a blanket with a picnic, while the dog chases a ball in the distance. Away and back again, over and over.

He'd love to have that. Dog or cat or ground sloth or whatever. He'd love to share that with Kate, and the want—the longing for it—is a sudden ache that he's wary of.

This is _such _a bad idea.

He's suddenly aware of the table-top kennel at his hip. That it's filled with a litter of kittens. Two or three sleeping together in heaps. Another pair of them tearing around the perimeter, feinting and leaping on each other. Making tremendous pounces that have their spines ringing out along the mesh top. They play at fierceness and collapse together, exhausted, only to spring up again the next second.

His mind starts to make sense of all the sounds. A story starts to spool around him. His head swings toward the door to his left. A clash of sound swells and recedes as it creaks open and closed, admitting and expelling volunteers. A lonely whimpering chorus and the eager staccato of barks. That must be where they keep most of the dogs. A swinging door and dozens of sad stories.

And there are more out here. Right in front of him. All around him. So much sadness, but love waiting to happen, too.

His ear picks out a low conversation. A volunteer explaining to a heart-broken woman and two small children that the shelter can't just hold on to Dora and Diego for them. That they'll have to make them available for adoption, but it's the right thing to do. That the shelter will do everything they can to keep them together—they'll find them a good home—but it's the right thing to do.

The glass-fronted section to Castle's right resolves into sense. He's hardly noticed it before, but it's a clinic. Staff in medical scrubs lean toward people in street clothes looking hopeful. Looking desperate and sorrowful.

Castle swallows and looks away, but there's nowhere safe for his gaze to fall. This is _such _a bad idea.

He's transfixed again by the woman and the stray brindle. The recently arrived terrier has run right between his legs, entirely underneath his big body. The dog peers down and back up at the woman in amicable confusion. She bends toward him and laughs fondly.

Just then, a name sounds out from the reception desk. The woman stands with an awkward, guilty jerk. She stoops to run her fingers over the dog's head. She tips her face toward his ear and says a few words. The dog grins up at her, his stumpy, tailless butt wriggling. The woman sucks in a breath as she leads him away from his new friend.

Castle sees the tears in her eyes and drops his own gaze, uneasy for any number of reasons. The rain pounds against the shelter's glass front, more determined than ever as the wind kicks up and turns the storm sideways. He really needs to get out of here, rain or no rain.

He tries to step toward the door, but the man with the cat carrier wants to make his way to the folding chair recently vacated by the woman. His six-year-old is howling now to keep the cat company. The carrier swings wildly in his hand as the cat hurls himself against its sides.

Castle ends up backing further from the door to give him space and bumps into something. It's one of the converted tables. It's smaller and more makeshift than some of the others, and it sways on unsteady legs. He stretches out his hands at right angles to steady what seems to be an inverted mesh box on top.

He peers through the dense maze of wire trying to make sense of what's inside. The sharp smell of cedar wafts up. The enclosure is dotted with irregular expanses of fur. Dark and light and half concealed by piled up bedding and a variety of overturned things. Heavy plastic planters, maybe, with tiny doors cut out. Improvised housing for whatever's inside.

He's still working it out when the whole place erupts into chaos.

* * *

A/N: Mary Sue-ing myself a little here. I did find a lovely brindle dog wandering in my neighborhood. I talked him into the back of my car, then stashed him in my yard while I called around to figure out what to do with him. Took him to a very good "accepts all animals, no kill" shelter near the house. They were crazy busy that day, so I had to sit for a long while waiting for someone who could do his intake, getting more attached to him the whole time. I did not, alas, run into a charming, ruggedly handsome writer. I did, however, blubber when leaving the pup.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: L'amour des deux lapins

WC: ~2300 this chapter, ~4100 total

Rating: K+

Summary: "This isn't theory. This is reality. Warm, solid, heart-breakingly adorable reality, and he's in love. He's in love, and they both know how that story goes."

A/N: Thank you for the reviews on chapter 1. As you can see, I was not kidding about the fluff, so I hope it continues to amuse.

Once again, thanks to Cora Clavia for the fluff-based coercion, and one million thanks to lindosaur for the bunny art. I stare at it for large chunks of the day and try to squee in my inside-my-head voice.

* * *

Kate wakes the moment she feels Castle's arm loosen around her waist. She waits a second. Gives him the benefit of the doubt, even though he hasn't exactly earned it tonight. She waits a second, then snatches him around the wrist when his arm moves to withdraw entirely.

"She's _fine_, Castle." She rolls to face him.

He's frozen. A shaft of lamplight tips in from the office and falls across his face. That was their compromise: All the office furniture shoved to the sides to accommodate the ridiculously large pen he'd convinced someone to deliver after 9 p.m., and a nightlight that he freely admits is for his benefit. He's worried.

She'd only just managed to talk him out of sleeping in one of the armchairs in the office. He's been up half a dozen times already, and here they are again. He's frozen, his face a ridiculous mixture of sheepish and defiant.

And worried. He's genuinely worried. She almost regrets the No Rabbits in the Bedroom rule. For his sake. Definitely for his sake.

"She's fine," she says again. It sounds convincing. She's almost a believer herself, but not quite. She's so small. The smart, feisty, beautiful thing. She's really so small.

Kate lets go of Castle's wrist and edges closer. Nudges her nose under his chin and tells herself that it's comfort. That she's giving and he's receiving. "They're both just fine."

"I know," he sighs into her. His arm falls heavy around her waist. They jostle together into a comfortable heap, her calf winding between his. He lifts her head gently and tugs her pillow so his overlaps it.

"Sorry," he murmurs when they're settled. "I must be driving you crazy."

"No," she mumbles against him. It's true and it's not true. She's driving herself a little crazy. He's just a little more . . . out there with it. She doesn't know how to do that. Yet. She's working on it.

Lightning fast, his left hand skims the shirt up over her lower back and finds the one spot she's apparently ticklish. "Lies, Beckett. You know the penalty for lies."

"Ok, ok," she gasps. She snatches at his wrist again. "You're driving me a little crazy."

"Sorry," he says again.

"S'okay. Just tired. So are you. And they're fine." She kisses his shoulder. She wants to bring him back in her direction. There's nothing to worry about, right? She chews her lip thoughtfully, and suddenly the question is there. It comes out before she feels like she's really decided to ask. "So what'd they say?"

"I . . . who?" He looks down at her in surprise. Caught again, and it hurts a little that there's the possibility of her catching him. That it's not a given they'd share this.

"Castle." She pats his cheek pityingly. "You may have noticed that the floor plan of this place is pretty open. You made three phone calls. I'm guessing shelter, emergency vet, emergency vet."

"Ah." He shakes his head. "The perils of sleeping with a detective."

"One of many," she agrees with a tug on his ear. "So what'd they say?"

"Well, the shelter's really only open for emergency intake." He's hedging.

"Castle. I peed while you were gone. You were on the phone before and after. That's longer than it takes to get rid of someone."

"Even me?" he asks, wide eyed. He's still hedging.

"Even you." She prods his ribs. "What did they say?"

"Not much," he says hesitantly. "The volunteer who answered the phone got another volunteer who has rabbits. She said it's really unlikely that it's wool block at this time of year. And it's not common in her breed anyway."

He's chattering. It's a barrage of worst-case scenarios that are entirely new to her. She latches on to the thing that sounds even remotely familiar. Words she knows, anyway.

"Wool block?" She peers up at him.

"It's . . . when they groom themselves, they swallow their own fur," he explains. He's trying to read her. To see how much she really wants to know. She wishes he didn't need to. She wishes it were obvious that of course she wants to know. What's worrying him and why it's fine. Of course she wants to know. "Sometimes leads to an intestinal block and she wouldn't want to eat."

"Please tell me you haven't been up scouring the internet for everything terrible that can happen to rabbits."

The thought devastates her in too many ways to count, but he makes it better. He always makes it better.

"No, Detective," he says with mock testiness. "I spent Alexis's entire childhood reading books, which is what we did before the internet, about every terrible thing that could possibly happen to every possible pet she might ask for."

"Hmmm . . . except that Alexis was born in 1994. There is no 'before the internet' in her lifetime." She clips the pulse low in his neck with the flat of her teeth. An apology. An invitation, though she can't resist the joke. She's playing a role, but so is he.

"Ouch." He claps a hand to his chest dramatically. He takes it up. This is how they are. "Don't remind me."

She laughs softly and dips her fingers under the hem of his shirt. She kneads her fingertips into the tight column of muscle at the base of his spine. He's worried.

He groans, low and visceral. It hurts. He mumbles into her. He tells her it feels good, but the tension isn't going anywhere. He's really worried.

Her fingers move over him. Her hands, and she reads the story of it in his body. Not just this sleepless night, but every one that's come before. He's not new to this. Not that rabbits and kids are the same thing, but he's been here. He's done all nighters imagining the worst. He's spent decades reading up on disasters in a hopeless attempt to be ready for them. To beat them back from his family's door.

She thinks about him walking the floors with Alexis. Drifting to her doorway and peeking in to make sure she's still breathing. Perching on the edge of her bed to watch her toss and turn with fever. To be there in case she woke up and needed him. And Meredith sleeping soundly through it all, if the mono incident is anything to go by. She thinks about him carrying all that worry alone.

"Vet said the same thing?" she asks after a while. He's being quieter about this than she'd like. Then again, so is she. She's not sure what it means. She doesn't know why it's so hard to tell him that she's worried too.

"First time . . ." Her knuckles dig into a particularly vicious knot just then, and he gasps. "Mmm. Don't stop. First time, he said as long as she's drinking, we don't have to worry for a few days. 'Several' days."

"Second time?" She hooks his thigh closer for leverage and grinds the heel of her hand into the knot.

He grunts as something releases. "God, Beckett, I've had that knot since before the internet. I have never loved you more."

She laughs softly. There's relief for both of them here. In this. "Flattering, Castle, but what'd the vet say the second time."

"You're worried." His eyes flutter open in surprise. "Shit. Kate, I didn't mean . . ."

"_You're _worried." She shoots back. She looks away and tells herself she's not blushing.

"I know, but I . . ." He brushes a kiss over her forehead. "I didn't mean for you to be. I didn't mean to keep you up all night worrying."

"So don't." She reaches far up his spine and drags the weight of her palm down to his waist again, soothing. Putting him back together, and he stills under her touch. It's better, whatever she can and can't say out loud. She can make a difference. "Tell me what the vet said."

"Tempt her with plenty of greens, keep track of her weight and food intake, and stop calling him in the middle of the night," he admits with a sheepish laugh.

She nods thoughtfully. "Partition was a good idea, then."

"I guess." He sounds unhappy. "But the big guy misses her. He just mopes over on his side."

"He misses her food."

She's laughing—trying to tease them both out of this dead-of-night fear—but Castle is right. He does mope. He thumps his back feet pathetically and scrabbles at the plywood partition Castle had jury-rigged down the center of the pen once they realized that he was probably eating for two. He hops from one end of the pen to the other and pushes his nose through the bars. He twitches it furiously like he can force it into a U-turn and reach her.

"That too." Castle yawns. He's still now. Loose and stretched out and expansive under her hands. "But mostly he's lonely."

"Not now," she says softly. She feels him relax, and that's something, even if her own worry is still a tight, hot mess in her chest. She pitches her voice low. He's so tired. He's so worried, and he shouldn't have to carry that alone. "He's asleep now. They're both asleep."

"Mmm. Probably."

He's more than half asleep himself. She smooths his shirt back down. Traces intersecting paths along his ribs and waits for his breath to even out. It doesn't take long.

She gives it a while anyway. She watches as the worry eases from his face before too many minutes more pass.

She nudges gently against him as she untangles her feet from his. She angles out from under the hand at her waist and slips from the bed.

She pads soundlessly toward the office and squeezes through the cracked-open door, wincing as a little more of the light slants across his body. He stirs and settles again as she pulls the door with her, narrowing the shaft of light.

She glides over to the pen and peers in. Sad eyes peer back up at her, and she feels a pang of guilt. He's not asleep. He's lonely.

She reaches for him and his ears fall back immediately. His eyes brighten and he sits back on his haunches, so willing to be happy. He lifts up toward her as she braces a palm under his warm bulk.

She rests him along her forearm and murmurs nonsense to him. She smooths her hand along his fur. Admires the ripple of color over the length of him as she tells herself that she's not trying to figure out which smile he's giving her. Castle swears there are at least nine. He's cataloging them. She's standing firm on the impossibility of rabbit smiles.

"Standing firm," she tells him sternly as she drifts to the other side of the pen. He gives her a smile. It's definitely conspiratorial. She wonders if it's in the catalog yet.

The little one keeps to the shadows. She's a tiny curve. A defiant arc, blacker than black and so small Kate can barely find her snuggled into the folds of the thick towels that Castle insisted were ready for rags anyway. She keeps to the shadows, but her eyes glimmer and give her away.

"You're awake, too?" Kate leans forward. In her arms, the big rabbit's nose wriggles excitedly. He jerks forward, very nearly overbalancing to slop over her wrist and into the pen.

"Hey," she hisses. She taps his head. The rabbit blinks up at her and she'd swear he looks guilty. Guilty but still smiling. She knows Castle has that one already. He tells her all about it when he's explaining. Why dinner is late. Why the smoke alarm is on the dining room table with the battery out. It's the guilty smile that's launched a thousand stories already.

She's in love with them all. Impossible smiles and improbable stories. Kate's in love with them all, but a soft, impatient thump draws her gaze back down. The little one hops out of the shadows and looks up expectantly.

Kate snorts. She hugs the big rabbit higher in her arms. "Looks like she's lonely, too, big guy."

She steps over to one of the armchairs and sets the rabbit down. "You stay right there."

He hops in one excited, lumbering circle, then settles.

Kate returns to the pen and scoops the little one into her palm. A strange calm comes over her as the rabbit gives her a bright-eyed look, shakes herself, and comes to rest.

She was worried, too. She faces that as the last of it washes out of her. She almost wants to wake Castle. To tell him she was worried, too. That he wasn't alone in that. She wants to tell him, and she hopes it'll keep 'till morning.

She makes her way back to the armchair and slides carefully into it. The big rabbit scrambles up over her thigh, clumsy in his eagerness for reunion. Kate draws her knees up into the wide seat and presses the soles of her feet together.

She sets the little black rabbit on her thigh and keeps the bigger one corralled inside the crook of her knee. He clambers nearer his sister. She startles at first. Her ears twitch up and she turns her head away.

"Easy," Kate murmurs. She strokes one ear gently. "She's lonely, too. Just give her a minute."

The big rabbit sits back as though he hears her. As though he understands. As though he can wait, even though he's lonely.

The tiny head swings back toward him. The white smudge of her chin dips down and her nose twitches. The big rabbit is still, but even so, she startles back once, twice.

Kate thinks she's going to turn and run entirely, then. She feels the little body coiling and keeps her palm at the ready. The rabbit gives another mighty twitch, comes to rest for a moment, then eases her way off Kate's thigh and on to the seat. She takes three turning little hops and presses herself into the warm silhouette of the bigger rabbit.

She closes her eyes.

He turns his head toward her. His whole body gives one happy, bright-eyed quiver before he closes his eyes, too.

They're already asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Title: L'amour de deux lapins: A première vue, Epilogue

WC: ~2700 this chapter, ~6800 total

Rating: K+

Summary: "He's not . . . He wants to explain that he's _not_. That he didn't even know what he was walking into. He didn't even realize this place was here. Even though he must have walked past it a hundred times, he had no idea."

A/N: This epilogue is a bit of a chronological cheat. It's technically chapter 1.5 of the original "L'amour" story.

It continues in the vein of utter shamelessness. And the blame goes in the general direction of Cora Clavia who was ENTHUSIASTIC about the idea of Castle at the center of a multi-bunneh pile up.

This is it for this little prequel (and incidentally, at one point earlier this evening, this epilogue was about 1100 words—Brain is such a CHEATER).

Thank you all for hopping (see what I did there?) on the bunneh train with lovely reviews and gifs and prompts and general delightfulness.

For the third and final time, dedicated to Berkie Lynn and the RL Batman.

* * *

"It could have been worse."

He's pushing it. It's stupid, but he can't help it. She's not saying _No_ anymore. She's not saying much at all, but in a good way. In a _great_ way.

She's kneeling up over the back of the armchair. Her arms are loose, resting on either side of her chin, and her face is soft and full of absolute delight.

She rolls her cheek to rest against the leather chair back and shoots him a look. It's definitely A Look, but he's fearless tonight.

Now he is, anyway. He's pushing it. Because she's not saying _No _any more.

"Worse. _Really _. . ." It's A Look for sure, but there's this tiny little smile that goes with it, too. Something entirely new and he thinks his heart might burst.

"Totally." He skims the back of his fingers along her arm. "I was covered in them at one point. It was like the snuggliest retreat _ever._"

She snorts and turns her attention back to the floor.

They've pushed the armchairs at right angles to each other and blocked the exits underneath with couch cushions and throw pillows.

The rabbits are scouting their limited territory below.

The dark one leads. She takes tiny hops around the perimeter of the space, wedging her nose under the baseboard at the wall and prodding at the the cushions as the most obvious points of weakness. Occasionally she scoots backward. She gives the big one A Look and he moves in, shoving with his head or turning around to kick out with his enormous back feet.

Kate holds her breath. She tenses whenever they get any movement in the cushions at all. They spent an anxious half hour earlier coaxing the little one out from under the wine refrigerator. Kate did, really.

They'd been sitting on the floor behind the kitchen island with their legs outstretched, the soles of her feet pressed to his, while the rabbits scrabbled between them in seeming contentment. There'd been a noise. A car backfiring out on the street or something, and the little one had just taken off in an absolute streak.

Castle had hardly even seen where she'd gone, but Kate was after her in a heartbeat. Face down on the floor, talking softly to her. He'd just hung back. Tried his best to soothe the big rabbit who was doing his damnedest to go after her. Hell bent on the impossible task of wedging himself into the narrow space.

Kate had been absolutely calm through the whole thing. She'd just lay there patiently, offering her fingers and talking until the little rabbit edged out all on her own.

But her hands haven't really steadied since. Not quite.

She's worried now they'll get out again. That the little one will disappear somewhere. That she might hurt herself.

She's worried and he knows she's not quite half convinced that he really does know a guy who will come through and deliver a rabbit containment system before midnight. She's worried he hasn't though this through.

"Have you ever even _had _a pet, Castle?"

"I suppose you won't let me count imaginary ones," he says. That gets him another Look. He shakes his head. "Then no. Always wanted a dog, but mother would always look horrified and declare that it just wasn't practical."

"And you just kept asking, didn't you?"

"Over and over and over," he admits. "But as much as I'd love to cast my mother as the villain, she was probably right."

Kate tips her head toward him again, surprised. "Castle, did you just admit that some things are _impractical?"_

"_Were,_" he corrects. "Were impractical. We are living in the future, Beckett, and all things are possible."

He reaches his hand down between the chairs. The big bunny rolls back on to his haunches. He sits up and flails his front paws playfully at Castle's fingers.

Kate laughs and roughs a hand over the rabbit's head. She wiggles her fingers to join in the game, but the little one thumps testily. The big rabbit's attention shifts back to his duties.

"So it's not impractical now. But back then?" She pulls her arm back up. She folds it along the back of the chair and rests her cheek on her forearm like she's settling in for the story.

It's . . . unusual. They talk. Of course they talk. They do the life story thing in bits and pieces. But it's unusual for her to ask like this. Head on and for no other reason he can see than she's curious.

It's unusual, but not unwelcome. Not unwelcome at all.

"Well, we moved a lot. And a lot of time there wasn't money for that kind of thing. Some places weren't really keen on children, let alone pets." He keeps his eyes on the rabbits. It's easier, though he's not sure why he needs it to be easier. It was a long time ago. "And sometimes the apartment math just didn't work out."

"Apartment math?" She smiles down at the rabbits like she's telling them this is going to be good.

He smiles, too, thankful for whatever magic this is that has her like and open and asking for stories even though he knows she's still worried. That he blindsided her with this and she has every right to freak out a little.

"Apartment math," he repeats. "Small place, so small dog. And we mostly lived in some not great neighborhoods . . ."

". . . so not safe for a woman or a kid to be out walking something small," she finishes.

He nods in confirmation, and she's quiet, then. He's about to ask. He wants her story, too. He doesn't think she ever had pets, but he's not sure. He wants to know, but something tells him to wait.

He glances up and catches her staring. She's watching him watch the rabbits and she looks . . . smitten. With him. With the rabbits.

He goes warm inside—bright and full and over the moon with it all—and he thinks his question can wait. Because he caught her staring and she looks fond and happy. She looks smitten, but curious, too. Like she's not done asking yet, so he waits.

She nods. Like she gets it. Like she's grateful he's giving her the chance to ask. "What about Alexis? Did she ask over and over and over?"

"She did," he sighs. "And I was the villain of the piece."

"You grew out of it?" she sneaks a quick look down at the rabbits like she's worried again. Like she might start up with _No _again any second. "Wanting one?"

"No," he says quickly. "Never. I just . . . I wanted her to have something. I wanted her to have everything I missed out on."

"But?" she prompts softly when he doesn't go on.

"When she was about four, she was having a hard time. I thought about it then. Meredith was gone a lot, and she had to come with me when I was traveling. She was good. She was always good, but it was hard on her. I thought a pet might be something . . . stable." He rests his cheek against the back of his own chair and reaches out to trace the path of a long curl sweeping over her shoulder.

She watches. She listens.

"I was writing one night and it was way past her bedtime. I heard her crying. I thought she must be having a nightmare, but she was sitting there in the corner of her room with this mostly dead mylar balloon in her lap. Some bribe or consolation prize from Meredith." He breaks off and she waits for him now. She catches his fingers as they trail off her shoulder and tucks them with her own underneath her cheek. He turns toward her in the chair, leaning closer.

"She was sobbing so hard she couldn't talk," he says finally, surprised at how helpless he still sounds—how helpless he still feels after all this time. "And when she finally could, she said she missed the balloon. That hurt to have it and then be without it."

They're quiet, then. She presses her lips to his fingers and doesn't say anything and he's grateful. He still worries that he was wrong.

He's more than grateful when she tells him her own story. When he doesn't even have to ask. When she just turns her face toward him and starts.

"I had goldfish." She thinks a minute. "Three, I think. Or four."

"Three _or _four." He smiles and cranes his head back toward the rabbits. "Don't worry, guys. _I'll _remember there's two of you."

"Jerk." She laughs and nips at the hand still trapped under her cheek. "They were school bazaar goldfish. Won them a few years running throwing ping pong balls into their bowls. Not exactly hearty."

"Nothing fluffy, though?"

She shakes her head.

He frees his hand and traces his fingers over her cheek. He pictures it. Little Katie Beckett wrapping her arms around some happy, slobbery creature. Holding her arms out and letting something tiny hook its claws into her and climb her from ankle to shoulder.

The picture dissolves abruptly. It suddenly occurs to him that maybe she didn't. Maybe this is something she's never once wanted.

"Did you want one? Something to snuggle?" He sounds anxious. He _is _anxious.

She laughs though. She sees the panic. Hears it and she laughs. She turns her lips to his palm.

"I did." She smiles wide at him and then bounces up higher on her knees. She dangles her arms and hooks her chin over the chair back. "I always did, but my dad's allergic to pretty much everything."

The little rabbit is standing at the exact center of the small space. She's peering at the chair bottoms. Intent.

Kate laughs down at the two of them. Her nose wrinkles as the big rabbit suddenly starts turning himself in circles as fast as his big body will allow.

"What's he . . . . ?"

The words break off as the big rabbit lets his momentum carry his broad flank into the cushion. He jolts it a few inches under the chair, but it stalls.

Kate's on the floor in a second, though, popping it back in place. She dives back up into the chair and leans way over the back, staring down as if she can't quite believe they're still there.

"Kate." Castle smooths a hand over her back. He leans over to rest his chin on her shoulder. "It's ok. They're ok. They're not getting out."

"I know," she says and her voice is strange. It's worried, but her breath catches and her fists clench. She's rooting for them too. She looks up at him, her face half hidden by the sweep of her hair. "Did you _see_ that?"

He nods against her. He saw it. He sees it. He sees the rabbits nosing at each other playfully. He peers over her shoulder and sees the look on her face. It's amazing.

Something bold and stubborn in the little rabbit draws her. She's completely caught up in their adventure. She's as crazy in love with them as he is.

He sees the look on her face and he just doesn't know what to do with it other than lean down and kiss her hair, her jaw, her neck. Wherever his lips land.

It's better than anything he imagined. She turns back and laughs against him and it's a thousand times better.

He's kissing her and she's kissing him and the rabbits are on to their next scheme.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He keeps kissing her as he moves to silence it. He doesn't want to miss a minute of this, but then he worries that it's Art touching base about the pen. He knows it'll be here. That Art will come through, but he'll take away as much of the worry as he can. He'll take it away and leave her nothing but smitten.

"One sec," he whispers and kisses her one more time. "One sec."

He digs out the phone and snaps two pictures, one of the rabbits and one of Kate sticking her tongue out him.

He turns himself to lean back in his own chair. He glances down at the screen and sees it's a series of alerts from one of the fan sites. A sudden influx, all in a row. It's a surprise and not necessarily a good one. It's kind of the downtime between book and the sites have been slow.

He has a long, sinking moment while the page loads up. Paula's been good about protecting Kate's privacy—their privacy—but they've had a few incidents. People snapping photos of them when it's obvious they're not on the job. A few blind items and the usual rumor mill.

He holds his breath as the thread fills the page. It's a long cascade already, and it takes him a while to scroll to the original post, entitled "Rescue!" He taps the link. It expands to a short loop of video.

The camerawork is shaky to say the least, and the lighting isn't helping things. There's a glare high up and the bottom of the screen is thrown into shadow.

The soundtrack is a blare of nonsense, but it's him. It's unmistakably him, just missing the bulldog's collar and crashing to the floor in a flurry of paws, ears, and plump, cotton-tailed rabbit butts.

It's comical. Or he supposes it would be comical if he didn't have such a dead serious look on his face. Of course, that really just adds to the comedy.

He watches himself. It's odd. He doesn't even remember. In the moment, he just felt like terrain—an obstacle or a target—but he sees himself lifting and shooing and helping rabbit after rabbit escape to the far side of his body. Away from the snarling pair of dogs.

He's nodding and looking off screen to the right and answering someone. Looking back toward stream of rabbits and doing everything he can to funnel them the right way. A volunteer, he remembers now. He was shouting instructions to herd them in that direction. That's why they all went that way. All but two, facing the tide.

The video ends there. A still of the tiny black rabbit sitting atop his knee. The big rabbit is on the floor just below her rearing up. It ends there, with all three of them looking back into the fray.

"Well."

He startles at the sound of her voice. He fumbles with the phone, trying to close the tab, but it's too late. She was watching over his shoulder the whole time.

"Well," she says again, and there's something odd about her voice.

He shifts in the chair to get a better look at her face. To figure out if he's in trouble or if it's something else.

But he doesn't have a chance. She's coming for him. All of a sudden, she's clambering over the arm of her chair and into his. She's sliding her knees on either side of his thighs and taking the phone from his hand. She's winding herself all around him and pressing her cheek to his chest.

She's holding the phone out and her thumb is hovering over the screen. She taps the

post and restarts the loop. She laughs and gasps and presses herself close against him. She says his name and trails off. She presses her mouth against his jaw in a wide smile.

She pauses the video at the moment he is absolutely covered in rabbits. One on each shoulder and the little fawn-colored one on his chest, looking up at him. Another three or four thumping over his lap.

She pauses it and kisses him soundly. She's laughing, but there's a tripping little sigh under it, too. She kisses him and scrubs forward to the end. To the three of them.

"Well." She sighs again, but it's happy this time. It's delighted. "You were right, Castle. It could have been worse."

* * *

A/N: Thank you again for your kindness in reviews and in regaling me with all your bunneh tales.


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